


and all the silver moons

by davidbrewer



Series: coffee shop soundtrack [1]
Category: Schitt's Creek
Genre: Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Alternate Universe - College/University, Art Student David Rose, Fluff and Humor, M/M, Meet-Cute, Remember how Patrick said he hosted open mic nights in the past?, Serenading David Rose works every time
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-08
Updated: 2021-03-08
Packaged: 2021-03-14 13:16:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,709
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29917485
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/davidbrewer/pseuds/davidbrewer
Summary: David was not at open mic night to see Patrick Brewer.He was not, in fact, at the open mic night at all; he was at his favorite cafe, finishing an assignment he’d been working on for the last six weeks... and that cafehappenedto have an open mic night, where Patrick Brewerhappenedto be playing.He’d worked during the cafe’s weekly open mic night for six Wednesdays in a row.But itwasn’tfor Patrick Brewer.
Relationships: Patrick Brewer & David Rose, Patrick Brewer/David Rose
Series: coffee shop soundtrack [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2205651
Comments: 36
Kudos: 128





	and all the silver moons

**Author's Note:**

> This was inspired by a prompt post on tumblr. I saw it months ago and kept thinking about it, so here we are.
> 
> Literally just tooth-rotting fluff.
> 
> Title from "for him." by Troye Sivan

David was not at open mic night to see Patrick Brewer.

He was not, in fact, at the open mic night at all; he was at his favorite cafe, finishing an assignment he’d been working on for the last six weeks... and that cafe _happened_ to have an open mic night, where Patrick Brewer _happened_ to be playing. 

He was there for the exquisite imported espresso, free Wi-Fi, proximity to NYU’s art building, and the stack of easels kept in the cafe's corner for that exact reason.

He’d worked during the cafe’s weekly open mic night for six Wednesdays in a row.

But it wasn't for Patrick Brewer.

See, this particular cybercafe was conveniently located only a block from the bulk of his classes; that allowed him to sleep an extra 20 minutes and stillhave time to swing by before class, unlike the days he’d tried to wait in the line at Starbucks.

He usually wouldn’t set foot in a place like this — getting attached to a cafe with a built-in stage was just askingfor trouble (unless you actually enjoyed having your ears assaulted by sad hipsters with no better place to play than the back of a coffee shop).

But anything that offered him more beauty sleep was worth it.

Once his morning visits became a habit, he’d started popping in after class too. Then he noticed the picture windows offered excellentnatural light… and the little suede chairs were unusually comfortable… So, he stuck around to sketch or study from time-to-time. Because David was a creature of habit, working at the coffee shop became a staple part of his week soon enough. The open mic situation was an accident.

_Mostly._

The cafe was perfectly transparent about the schedule, so it wasn’t as if a surprise siege of indie hippies cornered him with ukuleles and tambourines. No, David usually made apoint to be _long gone_ before open mic night got started, but six weeks ago... He’d gotten into the ‘zone’ with this stupid sketch that he just couldn’t get right. Time got away from him, he guessed, and then there was a small, redheaded girl playing an unrecognizable song on a keyboard before he could escape.

David waited until she finished to get up and start packing his things — he wasn’t a _monster_ — but then the next performer stepped onto the stage and started talking into the mic, announcing that he was the host for the night, or whatever. David quietly slipped his art supplies into his bag and stood up, slinging his bag over his shoulder.

That was his first mistake.

“Hey, look at that, we’ve got a standing ovation already,” the voice at the mic said, and David realized he was talking about him _._ Fuck.

He looked up, a grimace on his mouth, and saw the man was watching him with a smirk that was simultaneously annoyingand, well, attractive.

For some godforsaken reason, David lifted his cupped hand and waved slightly — regretting it immediately.

“I, uh, was just gonna get some more coffee,” he lied.

He really didn’t need more coffee.

But what else was he going to say? _Well, obnoxiously confident hipster man, I was trying to leave before you got started, but I guess that_ ’ _s not happening now!_

David got an amused, “Hm,” from behind the mic as he lowered his bag to the table. Maybe he could play it off like he’d only picked it up to grab his wallet.

Trying to ignore the eyes on him, he had no choice but to order his thirdcaramel macchiato of the day. He wouldn’t sleep tonight… and not just because of the caffeine. This humiliating experience would play in his head on a loop.

David heard a guitar picking — tuning, he thought — as he walked to the back counter for his drink. He thoughtthat he’d be off the hook from there; he could just sit down, go back to sketching, and pretend this never happened, but...

“You good?” the man at the mic said, once David got himself settled in his seat. “We good to go?”

_Fucking fuck._

David gave him a look, chin tipped slightly to the right. It was enough to make the other man laugh quietly before he, mercifully, moved on.

“Anyway, like I was saying, I’m Patrick Brewer, and this is a song that means a lot to me, especially lately. So, I hope I don’t butcher it.”

David hoped so, too. The only thing that could _possibly_ make the night _worse_ would be if he were subjected to a terrible cover of ‘Wonderwall’ or something.

 _Patrick — ‘_ annoyingly confident hipster man’ had a name now _—_ played the opening chords, and it was _not_ Wonderwall, thank fuck. It was a Sam Cooke song, one David knew pretty well. It was hard not to, after his little tryst with that Michael Buble wannabe, back in the early 2010s. With a shrug of his shoulders, he turned back to his project.

Then Patrick started singing.

And David couldn’t concentrate on his canvas anymore.

_Maybe I’m old fashioned, feeling as I do  
Maybe I am living in the past_

He’d never understood why anyone would be so willing to get up and make a fool of themselves in public. Open mics, talent shows, _American Idol_ … David couldn’t handle the second-hand embarrassment that naturallywent along with them.

But Patrick didn’t look like a fool at all. He looked like he _belonged_ up there. There was sincerity in his big, wide eyes — the kind that made David _believe_ every word. 

_"But when I meet the right one, I know that I’ll be true,"_ he crooned. _“My first love will be the last.”_

It was captivating. David couldn’t take his eyes off him.

After a brief applause, Patrick said his ‘thank you,' into the mic and David shook off his stare, gaze darting down to the canvas. It was a surprisingly humble departure, considering how bold he’d been, teasing David just two minutes earlier.

And that was six Wednesdays ago.

David hadn’t missed an open mic since, but... Again, he will reiterate: it wasn’t to see Patrick.

It wasn’t because, every night, Patrick sat down at David’s table to drink his post-performance tea (a chamomile blend, as David found out on the second Wednesday). It also wasn’t because he spent the rest of the week thinking about Patrick’s smile, or because he added an Aqualung song to his playlist after Patrick performed it on the fourth Wednesday. It absolutely, _definitely_ had nothing to do with Patrick adding an acoustic version of ‘We Belong Together’ to his repertoire after David casually mentioned his love for Mariah on their second Wednesday night together. (And David did not blush like a middle schoolerwhen Patrick _winked_ at him during the intro.)

He simply had a lot of work to do for his end-of-the-year portfolio, and the cafe was simply a nice place to work. That was all.

“One skinny macchiato with two sweeteners and a sprinkle of cocoa powder for you.”

A now-familiar voice snapped him out of his reverie. David looked up from his canvas to see Patrick, guitar hanging from his shoulder, setting two cups down on what had become their usual table. He put his pencil down and happily wrapped both his hands around the warm, oversized latte mug.

“Thank you, Patrick,” he said, lips pulling to one side of his mouth. “The, uh, Taylor Swift arrangement was an interesting choice tonight.”

The other man grinned around his coffee cup. “Wow, a compliment from the illustrious David Rose.” There was a knowing tone in his voice (that he had no right to have). Somehow, David didn’t mind it.

“Would we call that a compliment?”

“Well, it didn’t feel like an insult.”

David sipped his coffee. “That doesn’t make it a compliment.”

“It just… _feels_ like a compliment.”

David gave him a non-committal hum, setting his mug back down on the table. “You’re welcome to take my completely neutral observation however you’d like,” he said. He kept his tone deliberately aloof.

Patrick’s lips turned down into an upside-down smile. 

It was unfairly cute.

Patrick nodded his head towards the canvas beside David. “How’s the portfolio coming?” 

“This is actually my last piece,” David replied, preening just a bit. “I should be finished by the end of the week, and then I’m done with the semester.”

Patrick sat up straighter. “Wow! Good for you, David.” His eyes shifted over to the painting-in-progress, which was just a preliminary sketch at the moment. When he looked at David again, there was something different in his eyes; David couldn’t quite place it. “Have any plans to celebrate?”

“Mm,” David hummed. “I plan on popping a pill, crying a bit, and going to bed early.”

To his surprise, Patrick laughed. “As… _great_ as that sounds, I was actually thinking that, maybe, I could take you on a celebratory dinner.”

Okay, now that was an even bigger surprise.

Did Patrick just ask him out on a date?

“You don’t have to do that.”

Patrick grinned. “I want to.” David raised a brow and Patrick continued: “Really, it’s the least I can do after you sat through _six_ weeks of performances.”

“Well,” David replied, pulling his lips into his mouth. “I am a very generous person.”

“Is that a yes?”

David considered for a moment, but… If he was being honest, Patrick had him at the mention of food. And this semester _had_ been pretty exhausting. So he nodded.

“Sure,” he said, failing as he tried not to smile. “Why not?”

Patrick was positively beaming now, unleashing an army of butterflies in David’s stomach. “Great!” he said, and his eagerness was so fucking cute, David almost couldn’t believe it was genuine. Yet, somehow, he knew it was. “After the show next Wednesday?”

“Oh, now you’re roping me into a seventh?”

“Yes,” Patrick said. “It’ll be worth it, I promise.”

That confident tone _did something_ to the butterflies in David’s stomach. Suddenly, the little bastards had claws. “Well… Okay, then.”

“It’s a date.”

David pulled his bottom lip between his teeth. “It’s a date.”

And, if he walked home humming ‘Love Story,’ it was nobody’s business but his own.

**Author's Note:**

> The first song Patrick sang was 'When I Fall in Love.' Shoutout to RhetoricalQuestions for suggesting that Patrick cover a Sam Cooke song.
> 
> Come find me on [tumblr](http://davidbrewer.tumblr.com)!


End file.
